Full-Blood Half-Breed

by Cleve Lamison

  The Prophet chuckled. “It may seem so to you. You are new to the faith. But Vicente Santos first spoke of the war two thousand years ago.”

  Yesenia said, “The good spirits have whispered portents of war to Tomasa and me for decades. The Mortal Voice will unite the good people of every nation, creating the greatest army ever seen in the Thirteen, an army led by ‘the Last Black Spear.’ ”

  “A white fox,” Pía said.

  “Or a red bear,” Doña Yesenia was quick to add.

  “Either way,” Fox said, “I—I am humbled even to be considered.”

  “Good,” the Prophet said. “Humility is the tenth of the sacred Santosian Virtues, and the Santosian paladín should exemplify all thirteen of those principles.”

  “Santosian paladín?”

  Pía stepped forward and her mask of aloofness cracked. A wide, prideful grin spread across her lips. “The greatest of warriors will compete in Blackspear’s games and never know defeat. He will bring the armies of the Holy Empire to glory. That warrior is you, Zwergfuchs.”

  “Or Osvaldo Del Grizzly,” Doña Yesenia muttered.

  Fox ignored the hag. She may have believed Osvaldo to be the prophesied champion, but Pía believed in him. And, apparently, so did the Prophet. A smile broke out on his face. The One God was great. The One God was generous. And The One God was just. Finally, Fox would receive the recognition he deserved for his hard-earned martial prowess, and use both his skill and fame in The One God’s service.

  “We must return to the Purgatorium,” the Prophet said. “There are still many souls that must be purged over the next two days. But we have something for you.”

  He nodded to Pía. She took the scarf from her neck as she came forward and presented it to Fox. “Do you love The One God, Zwergfuchs?”

  “Of course, Pía,” he said, slightly offended that she should even have to ask. She smiled at him, and he realized the question had only been a formality. This was some sort of impromptu ritual. He blushed as she unfurled the banner-like scarf for him to examine. Embroidered in its center was a large Santosian Ira de Dios.

  “To show your love for The One God, you will wear His token when you compete,” she said, and wrapped the scarf around his neck, explaining how it was to be worn, and when he would display the Ira de Dios. He would reveal his Santosian faith after he had proven himself champion and won the hearts of the folk in the arena.

  “And if you fail, then we will know it is the red bear who will lead the Santosian armies.” Doña Yesenia grinned like a ghoul.

  “Not to worry, Zwergfuchs,” the Prophet said. “Pía believes you are our champion and I trust her judgment. Besides, I look forward to seeing the Fatesayer proven wrong.”

  “It has not happened yet,” the doña said.

  “There is a first time for everything,” Pía said, and the Prophet chuckled. Pía and her aunt locked eyes, a challenge of sorts passing between them. The four of them spent the next few minutes discussing the best ways for Fox to represent the Santosians during Torneo. He listened closely and got clarification of every detail he did not completely understand. This was the most important undertaking of his life, and he could think of no greater way to venerate Pía, the Prophet, and The One God than to wear the Santosian token while he competed. A loss, however, would be disastrous. It would be a contemptible betrayal of the faith Pía and the Prophet placed in him. Worse, losing the trial would mean losing Pía. And that, he could not allow to happen under any circumstance.

  He could not lose.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Redemption at a Bargain

  Pía and the others returned to the Purgatorium, and Fox left the subterranean chamber. His steps were heavy as he ascended the cold stone stairs, studying the scarf. It still held Pía’s scent and he lingered in the stairwell breathing her in. It was a fine garment without being gaudy. He explored every inch of it, contemplating the scarlet embroidery while he ran the smooth silk between his fingers. It was elegant, that was beyond dispute, but it was what it represented that awed him so: the hopes of the entire Santosian church. To lose a trial while wearing the favor would dash the hopes of everyone he cared about, ruin years of planning, and disqualify him as a potential mate for Pía.

  He entered the sanctuary through the sacristy, nodding amiably at Prelado Scrupulous and a handful of young priests and priestesses. His concerns were fast growing into worry, and that soon blossomed into panic. The mongrel had stolen half a victory from him already. No, he corrected himself. He would never slur the blended folk again. Del Darkdragón was not a mongrel, but he was a pagan—a filthy, stinking pagan with a history of cheating. Fox could not let that happen again. He would happily pit his skill and cunning against any other warrior in the Thirteen, youngling or adult, but the cheating pagan gave him pause. He knelt before the altar and prayed for guidance. The pagan had to be stopped. But how?

  He wasn’t allowed to dwell on his contemplations, for his fellow Santosians surged around him, patting him on the shoulder, congratulating him on his archery half-win in Kikwetu, Lengüoeste, Nordzunge, and Kokugo. Some of the newer church members barely spoke a world of the Alltongue. Fox nodded politely, but paid his fellows little heed. His thoughts were on Torneo and the final two trials. He knew he would beat the pagan in a fair fight. There was no way Del Darkdragón would cheat, not with thirteen Red Cloaks and fifty thousand spectators watching, and even if he did, Fox would not be taken by surprise. This time, he expected the treachery. But the Rings trial was another matter. All he could do was pray the pagan’s horse dropped dead in the middle of the trial, disqualifying him. He smiled at the thought, but doubted such a prayer would be answered. He had seen the steed, a beautiful enyepesi stallion, as black as midnight and as healthy as—well, a horse. Nothing was going to happen to that animal.

  Unless Fox made it happen.

  But there was no way he would be allowed anywhere near the pagan’s horse. The animals were kept in paddocks below the arena and tended by Don Felipe Del Coltbreaker, whose Patriarchy, Geraldo, had been stable masters of the Torneo games longer than anyone could remember. Horse care was a religion to House Geraldo. And they were zealous in protecting the Torneo competitors’ horses from any potential sabotage. The only people allowed near those animals were vetted stableboys.

  Stableboys like Urbano Del Spicebringer of House Próspero.

  Fox scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend, convinced he was being led by The One God’s will. Could there be any question that Fox strode down the path of righteousness? Whenever the Nameless Three placed an obstacle in his path, The One God showed him a way around it. Never before had any god or goddess taken such a direct hand in assisting him through his tribulations. It took a few minutes to spot Urbano. He was with his family, back near the sacristy, meeting with the prelado, and he looked painfully bored.

  Fox interrupted with all the politeness he could manage.

  “Zwergfuchs!” Urbano said. “It is good to see you.”

  “It is good to see you too, amigo. Call me Fox.”

  Urbano nodded in approval and introduced Fox to his family. At any other time, Fox would have been thrilled to meet them all, but tonight he was on The One God’s business, and his patience for courtesy was almost nonexistent. Still, he managed to remain polite and gracious as Urbano introduced his attractive sisters, all tall, lean, and muscular with emeralds for eyes. They were cordial, but indifferent to him. Except for the middle sister, Enriqueta, who was a fellow competitor in the youngling trials. Fox took no offense. They were nobles of the Lupina Matriarchy and he was from an unknown Line in Eisesland. They were well above his station. And besides, the sooner he was done with introductions, the sooner he could tell Urbano of his idea.

  After congratulating him on his archery win, Enriqueta joined her sisters, Paquita and Milagros, in conversation with an older, taller, prettier man that Fox did not know. Milagros was only eleven, but she had already mastered the
coquettish art of eyelash batting. Perhaps nobles learned such things early in life, Fox mused. Their mother, Doña Moonhunter, led the shameless fawning. The One God may have judged all men as equals, but Doña Moonhunter clearly had other ideas, particularly when it came to the courting of her daughters.

  Señor Don Efraín Próspero the Spicebringer gave Fox’s hand a vigorous shake. The nobleman’s grip was robust. He was a strong man, though not through hard labor. He was blade thin with the musculature of one whose physical activity consisted of deliberated choices, none of them truly necessary. He was rich enough to live an extremely slothful life if he chose to. He moved like a man who was well trained in theoretical combat, but rarely exercised that training in actual battle. His face was unmarred by scars. His hands were baby-bottom soft. Yet there was nothing that could be mistaken for softness in the man’s gaze. It was as steady as iron, though his eyes were the exact swampy green of Urbano’s. The Próspero patriarchs looked as much alike as father and son ought to. Don Efraín had more height than Urbano, more creases in his face, but less hair, all of it silver and neatly trimmed, as was his mustache and perilla-style beard. The don was the picture of discipline. Everything about his dress, movements, and words was carefully contrived. “Hola, Señor Von Hammerhead. It is good to finally meet you. Urbano speaks well of you and often. He says you were the finest young warrior at Temple Seisakusha.”

  “Young or old,” Urbano said. “Not even the monks could best him in kumite.”

  Fox dipped his head respectfully, but his need to speak privately to Urbano nagged at him. “I am flattered that Urbano would say so, Señor Don Spicebringer. I am shamed that it is the lesser form of Ashi-Kobushi which I have studied, and not The One God’s gift of el Combatedanza.”

  The don shrugged. “As I explained to Urbano, all gifts come from The One God. If your reputation is earned, you will prove as deadly with katana and wakizashi as any Oestean with sword and shield. Perhaps more so. The warrior is the weapon, the weapon but a tool.”

  “Wise words,” Fox said, and excused himself, taking Urbano with him. He quickly explained his plan to sabotage the pagan’s horse.

  “I would love to humiliate that híbrido pagan,” Urbano said. “But I just had the sin burned from my body. I am in no hurry to sully myself again.”

  “I will pay you,” Fox said. “I will give you another corona from my archery winnings in addition to the money I owe you now.”

  Urbano’s eyes lit up like Shimabito fireworks. “Make it three coronas and you have a deal.”

  “Three gold coronas? I could have him killed for half that!”

  Urbano shrugged. “You are asking me to commit sin, Fox. Surely you do not think I would imperil my soul cheaply.”

  Fox cringed, but he could not rebut Urbano’s logic. “Three it is, amigo.” They shook hands, sealing the covenant.

  Urbano said, “Are you not worried about offending The One God?”

  “We do this to bring honor to The One God.”

  “Sí.” Urbano nodded. “But after, we will pray for forgiveness as a precaution, to keep our souls safe.”

  In that instant, Fox came to understand what was truly The One God’s greatest gift. It was not fire or el Combatedanza or steel or industry. It was forgiveness.

  What Fox planned to do to the pagan would be an almost irredeemable act of treachery in the eyes of the goddess Seisakusha. To earn Her forgiveness and keep his soul out of hell, he would have to spend every waking hour of the rest of his life—and live a long time—performing outrageous deeds of magnanimity to counteract this single wicked act. And he would not lie to himself; he would never possess such charitable aptitude.

  But he no longer worshipped Seisakusha.

  In fact, he no longer even believed in Her existence. He worshipped The One God now, and His forgiveness was much easier to procure than Seisakusha’s. He had only to ask for it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Rings

  Paladin leaned against the back wall of the dragón’s den and yawned, sucking in a mouthful of the foul, brimstone-tainted air. He coughed until he thought he might vomit, just barely managing to keep his breakfast down. Gods! What was that stink? Between the reek and his weariness, the day was off to a miserable start. He had suffered a second round of nightmares, though he couldn’t remember the specifics, just lots of fire and death. He woke up afraid and found it hard to shake the feeling. The heavy stink of sulfur fouling the air didn’t help. Still, he had no time for misery. Or fatigue. He made himself focus on Torneo.

  Out on the game field, Enriqueta Del Moonhunter climbed onto her horse to ride for Rings. Paladin liked Enriqueta despite her being Urbano’s sister. He had danced with her once at Templo del Guerrero.

  She wasn’t much older than him, but she had a sweetheart and wore his favor—a fancy blue sash—tied around the handle of her lance. It made Paladin feel childish that he had no lover of his own whose favor he might wear. He was a man grown and the closest he had come to playing the love sport was the kiss he had shared with Esmeralda, and she had only been trying to entice him into becoming a Vile.

  Surely, Paladin mused, if he won the Black Spear, he could find some nice, non-Vile girls to woo. He laughed at himself and shook his head. He wasn’t going to win anything unless he stopped daydreaming about kisses.

  He studied Enriqueta Del Moonhunter carefully, more than impressed with her skill. She spurred her Sangre Caliente gelding downfield at a full gallop, keeping her lance as steady as stone, spearing iron rings from their poles as if they were low-hanging apples. When her quick ride was done, Enriqueta had collected ten out of thirteen rings, an impressive number.

  Riding for Rings was more difficult than it looked, though far less dangerous than actual jousting. The rider had to catch the rings on his or her lance while controlling a horse galloping at full speed. It was a clever way to teach a warrior control of the lance and accurate targeting. It also built strength of arm, as the lance grew more cumbersome with each added ring.

  Paladin believed Enriqueta had the skill to capture all thirteen rings. She simply lacked the strength of arm. By the time she had speared her ninth ring, her lance tip had begun to dip. Her grip lost its steadiness. Still, the skinny girl with the freckle-smattered face had performed well. She would have two more attempts at the rings, and her final score would be an average of all three tilts. She was off to a good start.

  Isooba rode next from the Prosperidad younglings. His boasts had not been all empty wind. His skill had improved. He was just as impressive as Enriqueta, capturing ten rings. His lance work was not as precise, but he was strong enough not to let the tip of the weapon sink. When his ride was done, Isooba strutted and preened as if he had already won the trial.

  Paladin could only laugh. Since his encounter with Esmeralda, his anger at Isooba had cooled considerably. Isooba was welcome to the girl if he wanted a Vile for a sweetheart.

  And apparently Isooba did.

  Paladin hadn’t noticed the tin bracelet on Isooba’s wrist until the posturing boy waved it at Esmeralda, sitting in the stands. If Isooba was wearing Esmeralda’s favor, it could only mean one thing. The fool had turned Vile as well. Isooba joined the Prosperidad younglings by the wall, and Paladin felt both pity and contempt for him. He had always known Isooba was dull-witted, but how could he have known the boy would be stupid enough to fall for the Vile doctrines? He turned away from his onetime friend and rival. Their friendship might have survived a contest for Esmeralda’s affection, but it could never endure Vile Creadorianism.

  It was Drud’s turn to ride next, and if ever there was a man or woman meant to wield the lance and sit a horse, it was Drud von Wildboar of Hertz’s Line. Had Drud been as agile on his feet as he was from a horse’s back, he might already be an Eisenfaust meister.

  Drud waited, poised and confident, for the stable-hands to bring up his horse, Schnelly. But Drud’s confidence, unlike Isooba’s, was unpretentious. He seemed unawa
re that thousands of eyes watched him. Drud had nothing to prove to anyone but himself, and Paladin felt a burst of pride for his vato. Drud had ever sought only the approval of Drud.

  Though younglings only lanced rings and not each other, they were expected to compete while armored, and Drud looked like a heroic knight preparing for battle. He wore a surcoat of brown and green over his hauberk, and a steel helmet fashioned to look like a boar’s head, his face peering out from the open mouth. The helmet was old and had belonged to Drud’s great-great-grandfather, presumably the man who had earned the name Wildboar. It was a fine helmet—not of Darkdragón make, but it would serve. At Maga Cabróna’s signal, Drud kicked Schnelly into a full gallop and tore down the field.

  Drud collected twelve rings. Only one shy of a perfect score, but Paladin had seen Fox the Runt ride for rings many times in the grounds behind Temple Seisakusha, and the Nordling won perfect scores more often than not. The Runt would be hard to beat. Two more Prosperidad younglings went next, neither matching Drud’s nearly perfect score. And then it was Paladin’s turn.

  Maga Cabróna called him up from the dragón’s den and escorted him to the start line. The disgust in her glare was tantamount to calling him a filthy half-breed with her eyes, but she kept her mouth shut. He was grateful at least for that. He donned his simple steel helmet while a pair of stable-hands led his horse, Tufani, up from the paddocks beneath the arena.

  The regal black stallion really belonged to Rebelde, and was kept at one of Coltbreaker’s stables, but Paladin had assumed an informal ownership, exercising, grooming, and caring for the horse. Tufani, whose name was the Kikwetu word for “hurricane,” was an enyepesi, the most coveted breed in the Thirteen. The horse was bred almost exclusively in the Nchi ya Kusini to run fast and far. Paladin could not help but grin when he saw Tufani, more companion than mount.

  And then he saw Urbano Del Spicebringer and his grin faded. As some sort of punishment from his father, Urbano was working as a stable-boy during this year’s Torneo, and just seeing him, especially handling Tufani, ignited a surge of hate so potent it eclipsed Paladin’s nervousness over the trial. He braced himself for whatever slurs Urbano would spit at him, but to his surprise, the pura-sangre boy was polite. Pleasant even. Urbano and a stable-girl helped Paladin into the saddle. Urbano smiled affably, handed Paladin his lance, and gave him a hearty “Good luck, Del Darkdragón!”